Matters of Consequence

As I scramble to organize and finalize my course schedule that’s filled with pragmatic subjects, I constantly fantasize about studying literature and writing more fully, as my major restricts me from taking all the fun English classes I've been eyeing, aka literature from the 1800s (fascinating, right). Every English professor I’ve met or read up on is a variation of caring, knowledgeable, and helpful, while my major professors are typically egotistical middle aged white men who are hard of hearing and whose syllabi usually contain a variation of “it’s laughable that you think you deserve any sort of opportunity to earn extra credit.” I blankly stare at them dully droning on about their years of experience in the industry, and find myself needing to shout into their ear when asking a question after class. I warily see a line of impatient students piling up behind me from the corner of my eye, waiting for me to get a move on so they can ask their questions and rush to their next obligation. Just like me. 

I think to myself indignantly as I stomp through wet leaves in my red boots that I read and interpret and write about literature in my free time, that I might as well get credit for it in a class. I gleefully build a new graduation plan filled with all the required courses for an English degree, then look at the time and click x out of the tab to get back to my “real” studies. I felt genuine joy and excitement recently when I sat in on a literature class where the youthful and energetic professor eloquently analyzed Rip Van Winkle for fifty minutes; I raptly clung to every word leaving their mouth, but couldn’t seem to stay awake to learn about equations in a later class.

I've always had issues with romanticizing vague scenarios and I'm aware that if I were confident or sure enough, I'd go through with a change in my field of study and career. I worry I will regret my current life and the course I'm currently going down, that my true fate is in literary pursuits, money and status be damned. I bite my lip anxiously as I jot down notes about how to make money, trudge through “networking,” and leave my beloved pile of unread books in the corner of my room, forgotten. I feel a little like the Little Prince, angry that everyone seems to be concerned with “matters of consequence,” which are really just semantics, a busy way of avoiding the things that are of true value. But perhaps my real anger lies towards myself and my inability to stray from such matters, because do my current actions not make me just like the rest of the red-faced, angry men, content with their fate of adding up numbers and muttering to themselves for an eternity? 

Most recently, I read Of Human Bondage, a new favorite of mine. One of the discussions the characters had was regarding money and its importance in their society, one that is not too different than our current one, “I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off." I can't help but agree, despite how un-romantic an idea it is. Philip, the main character of the novel states at some point, "I suppose money's more important than love?" Sometimes I wonder how many actions of mine are moves in the big game of life and surviving in this society, rather than conscious actions that I wish to perform, stemming from a desire to do such things from deep within me. I wonder where these actions begin and where my personal true decisions end. 

Reminding myself that I have my whole life ahead of me comforts me. In the past, I thought that fear of the unknown would paralyze me, but now it fuels me. No one knows what can happen in the future, not even me. I like to think that we all end up where we belong. 

Jan. 11, 2023